Who Dares Wins

by Chris Ryan

  It was too hot to run now, so he walked. But he still kept away from the road. He hadn’t seen a single vehicle all morning, but it was safer this way. The sooner he could get to a village, the better. To the best of his knowledge the nearest settlement was about thirty klicks along the road from the camp, but he couldn’t tell how far he had come. Twenty klicks, perhaps? Twenty-five?

  It was mid-afternoon before the village appeared up ahead, shimmering slightly in the warmth. Jacob stopped at a distance, squinting at the settlement for a while before planning his next move. He couldn’t stop people noticing him walking into town, with his unkempt, sweaty hair and beard and his dirty clothes. But if he came from this direction, and people started asking questions, he might find them difficult to answer. So he turned away from the road into the surrounding fields, and circumvented the village at a distance of about a mile. It took him an hour to rejoin the road on the other side, but it meant he could enter town from the north, putting any inquisitive villagers off the scent.

  It was a poor, featureless place. A network of telegraph poles dominated the sky, criss-crossing over the buildings like a cat’s cradle of wires. Below them, the buildings themselves were irregular but simple – breeze-block constructions, most of them, some rendered and painted white, the majority left a bland concrete grey because that was cheaper. They had high-pitched roofs, made mostly of corrugated iron; and shutters, some of which had been painted in bright colours.

  The main road bisected the village; in the centre was a junction from which other, smaller roads, little more than dirt tracks, spread out. The ground on the side of the roads and around the buildings was a thick, dusty sand. Aside from a few trees, there was little in the way of greenery.

  Jacob attracted plenty of stares as he strode into the village – grizzled male Kazakhstanis mostly, with Mongol-looking faces, weathered skin, old clothes and beaten-up baseball caps embroidered with the names of American cities they would never see. They certainly didn’t look friendly, but that, Jacob knew, was the way of villagers the world over. He ignored their stares as he continued into the centre of the village.

  He passed stalls on the side of the street. They were small, rickety things manned by small, rickety stallholders. Some sold watermelons, others sold different kinds of fruit. At one there was a pig roasting on a spit. The smell was almost enough to make Jacob swoon, but the look he received from the owner didn’t encourage his patronage. It wasn’t that Jacob was scared of these people. He just didn’t want to make a scene. As far as he could tell, there was only one actual shop. It was distinguished from the other buildings by virtue of a curved frontage and steps leading up to the entrance. Painted on the white, curved wall in bright yellow letters was a sign, but as he didn’t read the Kazakh language, Jacob couldn’t tell what it said. He stepped inside anyway.

  It was gloomy in the shop, and bare. A fat woman sat behind a makeshift counter. She glowered at Jacob as he entered, keeping guard over a tawdry collection of items many of which Jacob could not tell what they were – tins, mostly, with indecipherable writing and pictures of disgusting-looking food. A few wizened vegetables in a couple of crates. Among the junk, however, some familiar packaging jumped out at him: Western chocolate bars and fizzy drinks. He checked in his back pocket – there were a few crumpled notes. Not enough to buy very much, but it would keep him in sugar-rich instant energy for a day or two. He grabbed a couple of handfuls of chocolate and some cans of Coke, then returned to the counter where the woman wordlessly accepted his money.

  He was ravenous. On the steps outside he devoured two of the chocolate bars and a can of drink. That made him feel a bit better. The remainder he jammed into the pockets of his trousers and jacket, then he continued to walk around the village.

  Still the flat looks came. Flinty and disagreeable. Jacob ignored them. He was busy with other things. Busy looking. There weren’t many vehicles and what there were did not inspire much confidence, being mostly tiny, Russian run-arounds. Towards the western edge of the town, however, he saw a dwelling place on one edge of a square that was bigger than most. It had a low wall topped with spiky railings running around the outside and a set of heavy, metal gates. Beyond the wall was a rare patch of green and, unusually, the building itself was two storeys high. Its shutters were painted electric blue. To the right of the wall, but clearly still part of the same compound, was a small garage.

  Jacob pulled another can of Coke from his jacket and loitered. This looked a likely place. He sipped nonchalantly from the drink and started to stake it out. Thirty metres away there were children playing in the street with a football. They didn’t approach; indeed they cast him the same mistrustful looks that he received from everyone else. But a few of them, he noticed, had a game of kicking the ball close to him, a kind of unspoken dare. Pushing the boundaries. Boys will be boys.

  Movement at the front of the house. Two men exited. They were big and wore unfashionable denim jackets that bulged in such a way as to suggest they concealed firearms. Behind them was a much smaller man. He had olive skin, a moustache, and tightly wound black hair. He walked behind the bigger men, but it was obvious that he was in charge. In charge of the men and, in his own mind at least, in charge of everything.

  One of the bodyguards opened the gate. The kids stopped playing, grabbing their ball and bunching up together on the far side of the road. They jabbered quietly, but Jacob couldn’t understand what they were saying. He just watched as the three men walked towards the garage.

  One of the kids, presumably as the result of a dare, took the football and kicked it. The men paid no attention. One of them, though, noticed Jacob, who put his head down and walked quickly away. Only when he reached the corner of the square did he glance round. He saw the garage open to reveal a truck. Nothing fancy, but a sturdy, elderly four-by-four that would suit his purposes perfectly.

  He wasn’t followed.

  On the outskirts of town, far from the road, he took shelter in a ditch. It was, at least, dry and there was nobody about so he didn’t worry about being seen. The hot afternoon waned slowly. He took the opportunity to rest and plan the rest of the day’s activities. The guy with the two stooges, he surmised, was most probably the local hemp baron. Not the kingpin – his place wasn’t nearly flush enough for that; just some kind of middleman who the real drug lords would stamp on in an instant if it suited them, but who until then was content to swan around the town like he owned the place. Jacob knew his type – he’d seen them in all parts of the world where people made their money harvesting narcotics.

  It took an age for night to fall; an age during which Jacob could do nothing but wait. And think. In his mind he replayed the events of earlier that morning a thousand times. There was a weird kind of symmetry to what had happened. All his life it had been Jacob looking out for Sam. That was just the way it was – Sam had been the kind of kid that needed looking out for. Constantly. Now the tables had been turned and it was Sam who had saved Jacob’s neck.

  He felt himself getting angry as he always did when he thought about his family.

  The silvery moon rose before it was fully dark. It was already bright, though: it often was in this part of the world. He had watched many of these moons rise and fall. With the onset of full darkness came the stars. Heaven was full of them, amazingly bright. There was very little ambient light in the Chu Valley. It made the sky look like a Christmas card.

  It was past midnight when Jacob eased his way out of the ditch. He ate some more chocolate and then began tramping his way back into the village.

  The streets were deserted, but the moon was so bright it was almost like midday. He found his way with ease. Having memorised the layout of the network of streets, he avoided the road in which the hemp baron’s house was located, coming upon it from a more circuitous route.

  In the night air an animal howled.

  He stepped gingerly into view of the house. A guard stood at the gates. One of the guys from earlier? Perhaps.
From this distance he couldn’t tell. He was leaning lazily against the wall, with a rifle in one hand. Jacob could see the orange spot of a cigarette glowing like a firefly in front of his face. He stepped back into the shadows again and considered his options. If he was to proceed, the guard needed to be out of his way. But how was he going to do that? The guy had a good field of vision. It didn’t matter how quickly he ran towards him, he’d still be able to raise his rifle and have a go…

  Jacob retraced his steps. The guard was in position to stop anyone getting into the compound; so the last thing he would expect was for an assailant to be there already. He approached the house from the back. The wall was not high – low enough to scale, certainly. Jacob pulled himself up and held on to the large spiky railings, a little taller than he was, to peer into the compound. All was dark. He heaved himself up. His feet clattered slightly against the metal railings, causing a hidden animal somewhere nearby to scuttle away; but he managed to get one foot in between two of the spikes and push himself over, landing heavily on the ground below.

  He kept minutely still for a moment, waiting for the clump of his landing to dissipate and listening for any signal that he might have disturbed someone; but there was nothing, just the recurring howling of the animal in the distance. Jacob got to his feet, grabbed his handgun and crept silently round to the front of the house.

  The guard was still there, in front of the gates, and still smoking – Jacob could see the smoke rising above his head. He crept towards the gate, his handgun outstretched. Within seconds he was standing right behind the unsuspecting guard.

  He put the gun through the railings and tapped the end of the barrel twice against the man’s skull.

  The guard dropped his cigarette and spun round. When he saw Jacob he made to grab his own weapon; but Jacob shook his head sharply and instead the man stepped nervously backwards.

  The gates were not locked. The gun still pointing at its target, Jacob opened them and stepped outside. The guard couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon; so when Jacob delivered a sharp, sudden blow with his free hand into the man’s neck, it must have come as a surprise. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  Quickly, silently, Jacob closed the gates, strapped the man’s rifle – an old Russian-made AK-47 – over his shoulder and dragged the body towards the garage. These doors were not locked either – why bother when there’s a security guard on duty? – so they were quickly inside.

  Jacob worked with haste. He rifled through the security guard’s pockets, finding nothing more useful than a small amount of money, then turned his attention to the truck. There were several canisters of fuel in the garage, so he loaded these into the back along with the AK-47, before taking his place in the driver’s seat. No key. That wouldn’t be problem.

  There were two ways he could start it. A screwdriver driven deep into the ignition with a hammer then turned with some kind of wrench would work; but there was no screwdriver, no hammer and no wrench, and besides, it would create more noise than he wanted to make. Better to hotwire. He pulled the plastic casing away from under the steering column and located the wiring loom, which he ripped out with a firm tug. There were five or six wires here. It was just a matter of finding which ones were hot. He touched two at a time together, methodically, and before long the truck had coughed into life.

  Jacob jumped out and opened the garage doors. Seconds later he was away. He drove slowly through the village streets, sensibly, so as not arouse suspicion. But as soon as he was on the main road, he floored it.

  Jacob Redman was happy to be getting the hell out of Dodge.

  THIRTEEN

  The mood in the Hercules was bleak.

  No one spoke. They just sat there, all eyes on Craven’s bloodied body bag. Sam knew what they were all thinking: that it could have been any of them; that in situations like that, survival is just a fluke; that maybe, if one of them had looked another way or been a bit more on the ball, Craven would still be alive, joking with them in the afterglow of a mission successfully completed. But Craven wasn’t going to laugh with anybody ever again. And as they flew south, Sam wondered if the same might be true of himself.

  He could feel the tension with Mac. His old friend was avoiding his eye. Sam didn’t really blame him. He didn’t deserve to be kept in the dark. Why then, was Sam doing it?

  The plane shuddered. Just turbulence.

  He was doing it, he realised, because he, too, was still in the dark. Jacob might be safe, or safer, but Sam had just as many questions and hardly any answers. And when you don’t know what you’re talking about, maybe it’s best to keep your mouth shut.

  He thought of Jacob. Where was he now? Running blindly, no doubt. Keeping hidden. Wondering why the Regiment had been sent to kill him and how many others there were with the same aim…

  It was fully day by the time the Hercules started losing height. Sam would never have thought it would be a relief to touch down in Afghanistan, but that was exactly how he felt. When the aircraft came to a halt and the tailgate opened once more, sunlight and warmth flooded in. Sam staggered, exhausted, on to the tarmac with his Diemaco slung over his back and the others following in a ragged group.

  Members of the squadron were waiting for them. Not everyone, but at least twenty – enough to make it clear that word of Craven’s death had preceded them. They stood grim-faced and respectful, not saying anything to the returning soldiers, because they knew there was nothing to say. Sam avoided their gazes. Craven’s death wasn’t his fault; even if he hadn’t had other plans on that mission, the kid would still have bought it. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt. Keeping things from your mates like that wasn’t the Regiment way. Now that it was over, it made him feel bad.

  By the entrance to the aircraft hangar where they had first arrived was the spook who had briefed them. He showed no signs of having been up all night. His clothes, despite the already uncomfortable heat, were neat. There were no bags under his eyes. He addressed Sam, because Sam was the first to arrive at the hangar.

  ‘Care to tell me what the hell went on out there?’

  Sam stopped. He turned slowly to look at the man.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, care to tell me what the hell went on out there?’

  Stay calm, Sam told himself. He could feel his blood like lava under his skin. ‘I thought,’ he replied as mildly as he was able, ‘that perhaps you could tell us that. There was a waiting party for us. Russian special forces. A bit of an intelligence fuck-up – I’d say it was you that’s got the explaining to do.’

  A voice from behind. Mac. Quiet. ‘Take it easy, Sam.’

  But the spook spoke over him. ‘Listen to me, soldier…’

  Something snapped in Sam. Blinded by a sudden rage, he stepped towards the spook before he could even finish speaking, grabbing him by his collar and pushing him roughly against the wall. ‘No,’ he hissed. ‘You fucking well listen to me, sunshine…’ The spook weighed nothing; his square glasses fell from his face and his previous look of smug resolve had changed to one of alarm. Sam sneered at him, but as he held the guy up against the wall, the words just seemed to dissolve from his mind, leaving only the anger.

  Hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. ‘Leave him, Sam.’ Mac’s voice. Not loud, but firm.

  Time stood still. Sam felt the spook trembling. With a contemptuous flick of his hands he allowed the guy to fall. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, but he managed to stay standing. Back on terra firma, however, the anger returned to his face. He opened his mouth to deliver some sort of reprimand; but then Mac was there. Like a father hushing a small child, he put one finger to the spook’s lips. ‘Tell you what, pal,’ he said. ‘Do yourself a favour and shut the fuck up, okay?’

  The spook looked at Mac, then at Sam, then at the half dozen other burly SAS men that had surrounded him. His face twitched.

  ‘Your flight back to Brize Norton leaves in half an hour.’

  Mac nodded wit
h satisfaction. ‘Good lad,’ he said, making no attempt to avoid being patronising. He turned to Sam. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘Let’s get ready.’

  Sam looked down at the floor, suddenly embarrassed about the way he’d been with Mac. ‘All right,’ he mumbled.

  They walked away together. But as they did, the spook called out from behind them, emboldened perhaps by the fact that they were leaving. ‘Don’t think that’s the end of it!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll pay for that!’ His voice sounded ridiculously poncy, like the bully in the playground of a posh school.

  It just so happened that as the spook called out to them, Craven’s body was being wheeled off the Hercules. Sam turned back to the man, but this time he knew he could keep himself under control.

  ‘We already did,’ he spat. ‘We already did.’

  And with that he turned, pleased to be leaving Bagram – and that nob-jockey spook – behind him.

  *

  He didn’t need a sleeping tablet to knock himself out on the return journey. None of the boys in the troop did. He simply hung his hammock on the other side of the plane to where Craven’s stretcher was attached and within minutes of being airborne he was asleep. A deep and dreamless sleep, despite the hum of the jet engines and the troubles of the night before.

  It was around midday when they stepped out onto the tarmac of Brize Norton. The air was misty and damp – a thousand miles from the clear, dry heat of northern Afghanistan. With a sickening lurch, he saw a regular civilian ambulance parked close to the plane, its blue light flashing silently in the misty air, its rear doors open. That was for Craven; the rest of them were to be transported in the same two white buses that had brought them to the RAF base in the first place. Only this time, there was an addition.